


We'll Take Manhattan

by hrhiggy



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 19:11:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14026863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hrhiggy/pseuds/hrhiggy
Summary: Blaine Anderson is a hard working man. He doesn’t have a wife and kids to go home to like the other men in his work, instead he has a hidden bar on the lower side of town, with live singers and a quiet atmosphere that he likes, where he can nurse his scotch and be lonely.1940s-ish Klaine. Blaine is a supposedly straight business man, and Kurt is a jazz singer. (blaine centric)





	We'll Take Manhattan

**Author's Note:**

> currently in the process of taking fanfic posted to my tumblr between 2012-2014 and archiving it here on Ao3. This fanfiction was posted to tumblr in February of 2013, around when my url probably would have been "klacoustic" or "blamtastic" (but i'm not sure? I changed it a lot). It has not been edited or changed since, and will not be continuing or updating in the future

Blaine Anderson is a hard working man. Every day he goes to work at seven am in a large firm where he is still of average importance, despite being the hardest working employee they have. He works diligently for unfriendly men in crisp suits, smiles tightly and pretends to listen around the water cooler at two pm, works for another few hours, then stops to wish his secretary, Martha, a good evening around six am when it comes time for her to go home. He’s been sure to make the good-evening a bit less warm as of late, in an attempt to ward off Martha’s insistent sexual advances, though he’s not sure it’s having much effect. After she leaves he often ends up staying in his office extra hours, trying to wrestle through meticulous papers and calculations. Often he’ll be there late enough that the cleaning crew will be coming through while he works, and it’s just as common for him to still be working when they finish. He’s the first person in the building each morning, and the last to leave at night.

The face of the matter is, he works hard. By the end of the day, he needs to relax. He needs to sit down and have a drink somewhere besides his home because the only thing he’ll find there is more work and old newspapers flipped to the business section.

The place he goes for that relaxation is a bar on the lower side of town. It took him forever to find. It’s down a dark alley and the only indication there’s a business there is this flickering neon sign that says “Open” in hot pink lettering. There’s a worn out looking logo on the door to the joint, and Blaine thinks that maybe it once said the name of the club, but it’s too faded to read. So he doesn’t even know the place’s name.

He likes it there because he knows he’ll never run into anyone even remotely related to his work, or any business at all. The small late-night crowds of this club aren’t made up of businessmen like himself. Most of the time the small, circular tables and larger booths are occupied by men who are far past inebriated, slumped in their chairs and clasping yet another drink. By the time Blaine gets to the bar it’s much too late for a regular crowd to be out, anyway. They’ve all gone home to their wives and their families. But Blaine doesn’t have any of that to worry about, so like many of the other men that end up in the nameless bar, he sits alone and listens to the music of the performers the club brings in each night.

Tonight is no different from any other night. Blaine can hear the sounds of clinking glasses and low music playing as he descends the stairs into the bar. The entire place has a haze to it from the build up of cigar smoke that has nowhere to go, since the joint is underground and has no windows. He’d probably sputter and have a rough time breathing when he first entered, did he not enjoy the occasional cigar himself.

He walks himself over to the bar, the tender spots him and pours him a scotch without any sort of prompting. Blaine figures that just comes with how he frequents the place. He doesn’t have to say a word. Once he’s got his drink he sits himself in his usual booth with it’s worn leather and scratched up table. It’s big enough for five people, but he always sits alone. He sits down his hat beside his drink and loosens his tie. As always, there’s a pretty coloured girl singing on the stage. She’s the club’s most frequent performer. Miss Jones, they call her. Blaine’s never heard pipes like hers outside these walls. He used to be a bit of a singer himself, a long time ago. He was told he had quite the voice. He could tackle a Sinatra song like no one else. But those days were long gone now. He used to really enjoy it, but he doesn’t know if he would even remember how nowadays. It’s been too long. Still, he enjoys coming here and listening to the young, talented artists the city had to offer. Reminds him a bit what it was like, takes his mind off things.

Ms. Jones is usually followed up by a skinny blonde girl. Not as amazing of a voice but she’s the kind of beauty men go mad thinking about. Blaine’s always enjoyed her set, maybe not as much as the other men in the bar, but she was easy listening. The blonde beauty doesn’t step up on the stage tonight, though. Instead Ms. Jones tells the crowd she’ll be introducing a new act for the night, a close friend of hers she thinks they’ll all enjoy. Then she’s calling a Mister Kurt Hummel onto the stage.

Blaine doesn’t see a lot of men up there performing on that stage. The band, they’re all guys, but the singers are almost always gals. It might be nice, he thinks, to see them shake it up a little around here. His eyes slide to the side of the stage where the performers usually enter. Ms. Jones is stepping down the stairs on that end of the platform, passing Mister Kurt Hummel on his way up. The slip by each other, and Mr. Hummel is left alone on the stage. Blaine keeps his eyes on the darkness near the side of the stage where the new man lingers. The singer pauses for a moment before stepping further onto the platform and into the harsh spotlight.

Blaine raises his eyebrows. He’s never seen someone who looks quite like Mister Kurt Hummel does. He’s all long slender limbs and pale skin. His hair is brushed back away from his pretty face and he’s dressed to the nines. The way he stands says confidence and Blaine doesn’t doubt for a second that it’s warranted. Whoever this kid is, he’s got… something.

“Hello, I’m Kurt Hummel. And I’m here to sing a few songs for you.” It’s the standard greeting to a crowd. Not that they’re listening really. These kind of places, the singer is important, sure they are, but they’re background noise. They take second rung to the hum of drunken chatter and the clink of half-empty glasses. Or half full if you feel like being an optimist, Blaine supposes.

Mister Kurt Hummel clears his throat and the band starts up from the side of the stage. While waiting for his queue, the singer moves his hips back and forth smoothly, closing his eyes and getting into the music. Blaine watches expectantly, taking small sips of his scotch and never taking his eyes off the man swaying back and forth on stage.

We’ll have Manhattan  
The Bronx and Staten  
Island too.  
It’s lovely strolling through  
The zoo!

Blaine knows this song. He hears it play on the radio once in a while, and Martha hums it while she files papers at the office some days. But Martha doesn’t hum this tune like Mister Kurt Hummel sings it, no sir. Blaine’s never heard the song like this. Mister Hummel’s voice is high and clear, unique to most of the male singers Blaine hears on the radio these days. High enough to handle the Ella Fitzgerald song flawlessly, you would never guess it wasn’t meant for him to sing in the first place.

 

It’s very fancy  
On old Delancy  
Street you know.  
The subway charms us so  
When balmy breezes blow  
To and fro.

 

And tell me what street   
Compares with Mott Street  
In July?  
Sweet pushcarts gently gliding by

The song is supposed to be about all of the little pleasures for a young couple in Manhattan. And really, Blaine thinks, who else could see Manhattan the way it’s depicted in the song but a pair of lovers seeing through rose-tinted glasses. Talking about a balmy breeze on a subway in July, when Blaine knows first-hand the air in the subway cars are filled with stifling heat. And only lovers, disconnected from reality could find the stink of the pushcarts on Mott street sweet, or consider their noisy jostling anything akin to “gentle”.

But then, Blaine’s never been in love. He wouldn’t know.

The great big city’s a wondrous toy  
Just made for a girl and boy.  
We’ll turn Manhattan  
Into an isle of joy!

Up on stage, Kurt Hummel is still swaying gently back and forth. One hand rests on his stomach while the other is gripping the microphone stand with a loose hold. Blaine watches him with curious eyes. Something about Kurt was different than most singers Blaine seen. And it wasn’t just that he was a man, either. He had this glow about him, up on that stage. It made Blaine want to know him. He wanted to sit down and buy Mister Kurt Hummel a drink and sit at the bar until late at night. There was just something about him that drew Blaine in.

The idea of all of this, Blaine knows, is ludicrous. It’s more than possible that Blaine will never see Kurt Hummel again. Many singers here performed once and then never showed up again. Or maybe Kurt would make the big time. Maybe Blaine would start hearing his name all over the place and his songs would be on record for Blaine to buy and listen to at home. It he could hear a voice like that at home, he might just start going there a lot more often.

Blaine hardly notices it happening, but apparently Kurt’s song must have ended, and apparently he must have sung three more, because much sooner than Blaine thinks is fair, Mister Kurt Hummel is taking an almost shy bow and walking out of the spotlight and off of the stage.

“He’s good, huh?” Blaine starts at the high voice behind him. “He’s a close personal friend of Miss Jones.” It’s the pretty blonde girl, Blaine realizes, the one who usually sings in Kurt’s place. He must look confused because she explains with a smile, “I let Kurt take my set for tonight, but I still needed the cash. So I offered to wait tables.” She shrugs. “It’s not exactly glamorous, but money is money and I’ve got a little girl at home.” Her eyes flicker to Blaine’s near empty glass, “More scotch?”

He shakes his head, straightening his jacket, “No, thank you. I think I’ll be retiring early tonight.”

The voices on Martha’s radio the next day don’t come close to Kurt’s. Nothing really does, Blaine notices. The mannequins in store windows he passes on his way to work could never be dressed as well as Kurt Hummel, and the acts advertised on fliers the city-over wouldn’t be half as good as Kurt’s three-song set. Blaine can just tell. They just don’t have the right look about them. Kurt had the right look about him.

That night, Blaine returns to the club. This time he’s accompanied by a stack of paperwork that he hadn’t gotten done that day thanks to lingering thoughts of Kurt Hummel. He plans to get it done while listening to Ms. Jones, and be finished with it by the time Mister Hummel steps up to sing.

At the end of Ms. Jones set, it isn’t Kurt who steps up onto the stage. It’s the pretty blonde again. From the stage, she throws him a sweet smile, and he thinks he might detect some sort of apology in her gaze. As if she knew he had been waiting for Kurt. He returns her a sad smile, and then he packs up his work. He thinks he’ll take his paperwork home tonight, perhaps listen to some Ella Fitzgerald while he chips away at it.


End file.
